


First Impressions

by Cute Negativity Cloud (Ofelia)



Category: All For the Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grieving, Physical Abuse, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-05-30 02:45:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6405634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ofelia/pseuds/Cute%20Negativity%20Cloud
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time the Foxes see Neil is not necessarily the one that counts, or the one that sticks. When dealing with such a skittish, lying stray, sometimes re-evaluation is in order. A series of one-shots, each told from a different Fox's perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kevin

**Author's Note:**

> The first time Kevin sees Nathaniel, the first time Kevin sees Neil. But "seeing", only seeing, in Kevin's case isn't enough. This boy will be the death of him, Kevin thinks, and then, this boy will be the death of himself.
> 
> I want to elaborate on the tags to be absolutely clear: there is a quite gory scene involving the Butcher doing his "job" in front of children. It's canon-compliant, but it's also lengthy and detailed, so be advised.

I.

 

The first time Kevin sees Nathaniel, he thinks “How strange”.

Strange is the way Nathaniel seems both vibrating with energy and subdued; like a thin layer of ice hiding tumultuous waters underneath. His eyes shine when he sees Riko and Kevin, or so Kevin thinks; it’s a fleeting impression, quickly replaced by an impassible expression.

Strange is the way Nathaniel carries himself, like he’s trying his hardest to make himself small and invisible, yet his eyes dart around the Nest’s lounge like he wants to touch every cushion and jump on every couch. The blonde woman escorting him - his mother, Kevin assumes - puts a hand on the back of his neck, scowling. Nathaniel focuses then, staring only ahead, and takes the smallest step towards her side - away from the man on his other side, who is clearly his father. The resemblance is almost uncanny. Kevin thinks fleetingly of his mother, who he doesn’t remember very well, but everybody loves to compare him with through videos, photographs, interviews. He looks like his mother, but not this much, and maybe the pang he feels is jealousy - which doesn’t make sense, because he has the only thing that matters in common with her.

The Master greets the family - the Wesninskis - and then he ushers Nathaniel to Riko and Kevin. He knows they’ll do what’s expected of them - they don’t need supervision. Nathaniel has brought his own gear, but Riko scoffs at that ridiculous notion, and he gives him Raven gear.

“Who knows,” Riko says, grin wicked like the reaper’s sickle, “maybe you’ll be my number three.”

Nathaniel isn’t listening to him, though; he’s looking outside the court, where his parents seem to be fighting. Riko moves to shove him; Nathaniel’s reaction is lightning-quick. He brings up his racquet to intercept Riko’s arm, then pushes him away. Riko staggers and falls flat on his ass, and Kevin is so startled, so amazed, that he forgets himself and laughs.

“Oh, sorry,” Nathaniel says as he smiles at Kevin, “I did that on purpose.”

For a moment, Kevin thinks that having this Nathaniel around wouldn’t be so bad. He asks, “Is everything okay with your parents?”

The smile dies on Nathaniel lips. “They just disagree sometimes. My mum doesn’t want me to play.”

Kevin should’ve known better than to ask, he knows, so he just says, “Let’s play.”

Riko bangs his racquet on the floor, scowling. “Let’s.”

Nathaniel studies him. Then he grins like he can’t wait to throw him to the ground again, and they play.

 

When a Moriyama man comes to fetch them, Kevin has forgotten all about the Master and the Wesninskis and Riko trying to shove Nathaniel. The boy isn’t at their level - no one is - but he’s _good_ , he’s a _fury_ , and it’s the most fun Kevin has had in a long time. He almost protests when they’re interrupted. Even Riko looks like he he doesn’t even remember about being shoved; he looks satisfied, maybe even happy.

The man guides them to the elevator and through the doors of the eastern tower.

There is a man groveling and crying on the floor.

Lord Moriyama is in the room, not watching the man, who is clearly displeasing him. Kevin is only eleven, yet he knows better than that man: you don’t cry in Lord Moriyama’s presence.

Kevin is only eleven, so he thinks that the worst possible thing is displeasing Lord Moriyama, because his disappointment means exhausting drills, a cane to the back, being left out in the night’s cold.

He doesn’t know any better, yet.

Riko and Kevin are made to sit on one of the couches. Nathaniel remains standing, staring at the man. All the happy energy from before has leeched out of him. He looks ashen.

Lord Moriyama calls, and Nathaniel father enters. His icy blue eyes scan the room and ignore everyone but the Lord and the man on the floor. His affable smile turns _wrong_ when he looks down at him. Two men follow him in, menacing like only mobsters can be.

Lord Moriyama greets him politely. Nathaniel slowly approaches his father and stands at his side. He carefully looks from Lord Moriyama, his father and the crying man.

His father looks at him, still smiling in that wrong way. “Where are your manners, Nathaniel?”

The boy jumps like he’s been yelled at. He greets Lord Moriyama. He looks at Riko and Kevin then, and then again to his father, unsure what to do. His father puts a hand on his shoulder and nudges him to the couch opposite Riko and Kevin’s with a shove that doesn’t look light at all. Nathaniel doesn’t make a sound.

Kevin feels a chill running down his spine. Where did Nathaniel’s liveliness go?

The ice-eyed man turns to the crying man. He asks, “Do you know who I am?”

The man says he doesn’t know. He looks like he has calmed down somewhat; maybe because they brought three children into the room; maybe because the man sees him smiling.

 _Wrong wrong wrong_ , Kevin thinks. He looks to Nathaniel. The boy is sitting with his back ramrod straight and an impassible expression on his face. Coupled with how his feet barely reach the floor, he looks uncanny. Disturbing. Dead even, he’s so still. It’s like he’s not breathing.

Kevin understands why when his father opens the bulky leather briefcase he was holding. Light glints off the array of knives spread on the table between the two couches. “I’m the Butcher,” Nathaniel’s father says, and the man starts begging. Kevin’s blood turns to ice. Certainly he doesn’t mean… certainly he won’t…

Kevin turns to Riko. He looks excited, inching forward slightly, like he wants to get closer, see better.

On the other side of the room, Nathaniel looks as cold as ice, the same ice in his eyes, in his father’s eyes.

The man gets up from the floor on shaky legs, looking around frantically - but the room is lined with Moriyama men, and there’s nowhere for him to go. Nathaniel’s father picks up a knife, turning it a few times this way and that, like he’s admiring it. Then he puts it down, picks another, and then another. All the while he’s telling the man all the reasons why Lord Moriyama is displeased with him, all his failures, his mistakes and, worse, his betrayals. The man begs and grovels, tries to justify himself. Nathaniel’s father opens the last flap of the briefcase, revealing an axe. He picks it up, testing its blade’s sharpness, but no blood wells on his finger. “See how dull this has become? To think the first time I used it, I hacked a man’s arm right off,” he says, and the man _loses it_. The Butcher’s men knock him down to the floor and hold him there.

“Now instead,” he goes on, smile as cold as a snake’s slithering against one’s skin, “I have to bear it down two, three times before it chops off a limb.”

The man screams for Lord Moriyama’s mercy. Kevin wants to run, but suddenly “displeasing Lord Moriyama” has taken a new meaning, and he doesn’t dare. The Butcher holds the axe high, and his smile fills with teeth and glee. Then he bears it down, and Kevin looks away just in time, but he can’t not hear the sickening, sharp noise of a blade cutting through flesh, the agonized scream.

Riko grabs his face and pulls at his hair, forcing him back to watch. “Look, Kevin,” he whispers, and the glee dripping from his voice is like venom, “look what happens to the people who don’t respect us as they should.”

Kevin sees the man reaching out with the bloody stump of his left arm, which is missing a hand. The Butcher shoves a foot on the arm, pinning it to the floor, and brings down the axe again. The man’s screams turn animal. He doesn’t sound human anymore. The Butcher wasn’t lying; it takes three tries to cut the man’s elbow. The white of a bone gleams through the red of the flesh. Blood gushes out, pooling rapidly on the floor. The Butcher carelessly kicks at the chopped off pieces, strewing them around. The hand lands just a few inches from where Kevin is sitting. Kevin stares at it as he struggles not to heave. Riko is too focused on what the Butcher is doing to notice that Kevin isn’t watching anymore. But he’s close, and his hands are still on Kevin’s neck and face, so Kevin feels him trembling. Kevin glances at him. Riko stares at the Butcher, at the man who’s being taken apart - alive and screaming and crying and begging and _alive_ _alive alive_ \- and smiles, gleeful, almost manic, but he’s trembling, and a fine sheen of sweat is gathering above his upper lip, at the hairline of his temples. Lord Moriyama is right there, watching the man like he’s nothing, like he’s less than a speck of dust on a shoe. He’s not watching Riko, nor Kevin, but Kevin is watching him and he knows that’s a privilege Riko hasn’t.

Althoug Riko wants to, oh he _wants to_ , Kevin knows, but he absolutely _can’t._

What Kevin doesn’t know - and for the first time he wonders - is just where the line is between what Riko _is_ and what he wants to be in front of Lord Moriyama.

Kevin is eleven, and he watches from Riko to the ice-eyed boy on the other side of the room, and he wonders for the first time what it’s like to craft a mask for a father.

Nathaniel is still sitting motionless, his expression rivaling Lord Moriyama’s in impassiveness. He doesn’t jump like Kevin whenever a new piece is chopped, he doesn’t look away from what the Butcher is doing. His eyes are dead. This, Kevin realizes, isn’t the first time he sees something like this.

A lifetime passes, slow and agonizing, and after being reduced to wheezes and feeble squeals, the man finally dies. His limbs are scattered in a hundred pieces around the floor. The Butcher hands the axe to one of his men, and then he beckons Nathaniel forward. His arms are covered in blood to the elbows. When his son stands by his side, he puts a hand on his shoulder, and the blood starts to seep into the boy’s shirt. Nathaniel goes rigid. His fingers twitch, like he wants to ball them into fists, until he spreads them on the side of his thighs. Kevin can’t see his face now, so he can only wonder how his mask is holding up.

The Butcher says, “I’m grateful, Lord Moriyama, that you’re giving my son this chance to be useful.”

Lord Moriyama stands, completely disinterested. “It is my understanding that the boy needs to find a purpose indeed. However, I am not directly involved with these small matters. My brother will decide whether he gets to join the team or not.”

“Of course, Lord Moriyama.” The Butcher’s fingers dig into Nathaniel’s shoulder, and the boy’s fingers grip the fabric of his pants.

Lord Moriyama leaves the room. Before following him, the Butcher shoots his son a glare full of loathing. It’s so at odds with the smile he’s worn until now that Kevin thinks, for a moment, that he imagined it.

“Don’t be useless,” the Butcher says lowly, and then he exits the room. He crosses the Master on his way out, but he doesn’t even acknowledge his presence. The Master ignores the bloody mess on the floor and looks down on Nathaniel.

“I watched your scrimmage,” he says, slow and deliberate.

Nathaniel is drinking every word.

“Only one isn’t enough. You will come back for a second,” the Master finishes.

“Yes,” Nathaniel rushes to say, and Kevin stares at him. He sounds so _lively_ , suddenly, and it’s so strange. Like he’s coming back to life.

“Be sure not to bring your mother next. I will not have my game disrespected in my court.”

“Yes, sir,” Nathaniel responds, and then he turns to Riko and Kevin.

His smile is enthusiastic, like he can’t wait, like nothing happened. Like everything is fine.

 

II.

 

The first time Kevin sees Neil, he’s coolly unimpressed with him. What idiot refuses a contract with Kevin’s team?

“I’m not good enough to play on the same court as a champion,” Neil says, and he’s right only partly, because it’s not a matter of being good (not that any of the Foxes - save Andrew, when he can be bothered to make an effort - are good enough to play with Kevin, or with any class I team, really). It’s a matter of talent and a matter of dedication, a matter of putting exy always first and always striving to be closer to the unattainable - perfection - and that? That is the only thing that matters to Kevin, and very few have it.

It’s not something you can see in game statistics or videos either, and yet.

As Neil points out, there are thousands of strikers out there who would sign anything - up to and including a deal with the devil - to play with Kevin. Neil is skittish, he’s evasive, and Wymack might care about his circumstances and be his own personal brand of kind all he wants, but Kevin doesn’t care.

Kevin cares only about one thing.

He came way too close to losing it to let this fearful boy oppose him. His protests are inconsequential; Kevin has chosen, and that is it. Neil Josten will bend. After all, what else does he have anyway? If Wymack chose him, he’s probably in desperate need to get out of Millport, Arizona, as fast as he can.

The only thing that matters to Kevin is the passionate, desperate drive that leaves one trembling and on fire at the end of a game.

And no matter how pathetic Neil looks right now - clutching his duffel’s strap like he was ready to bolt - Kevin _has seen it._

He cuts Neil off with nonchalance when he says, “I won’t play with Kevin.”

“You will,” Kevin says, and there’s no doubt in his mind he’s speaking the truth.

Wymack shrugs at Neil. “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but we’re not leaving here until you say yes. Kevin says we have to have you, and he’s right.”

 _We have to have you_ , Kevin thinks as bile and fear clog his throat, and he watches Wymack, watches his reasons and his resolve to try again and again and again, no matter how many times he’s let down, and he doesn’t let himself think _that word._

 _I have to have you_ , Kevin lets out, before shutting that thought down, and with it the dark pit of despair where Riko’s gleaming teeth and sadistic laughter lie.

The only thing that matters is that Neil has the kind of drive that Kevin can mold into what the Foxes need.

“You play like you have everything to lose,” Kevin says, and he sees Neil’s recognition. He knows what Kevin is talking about. “That’s the only kind of striker worth playing with.”

 

III.

 

The first time Kevin recognizes Neil, it feels like being plunged into ice-cold, churning water. Jean’s venomous words eco in his ears:

_I suggest you speak with him if you do not want everyone to know you are the Butcher’s son._

The Butcher.

Kevin _remembers._

A man with ice in his eyes.

The glint off an array of knives.

An axe, a snake’s smile, and then the axe bearing down, and down, and down.

A man screaming and begging until only the crying, animal part remained.

Blood pooling on the floor.

A polished shoe kicking, a hand rolling at Kevin’s feet.

The Butcher smiling, the Butcher with blood up to his elbows, the Butcher scaring his own son to an ashen, fearful thing whereas before, when they had played together, he had been so lively, so fearless.

Neil shoves Kevin away from Jean and the table, and Kevin remembers something else, something he had long buried. He remembers a smartass boy, a boy who didn’t have the slightest idea how things worked, stopping Riko and then shoving him to the ground, and _then_ doing the unthinkable. Kevin can’t remember the words, exactly, but he remembers the challenge, the fierceness of them. His lungs seem ready to collapse at the thought.

“That’s not true,” Kevin says, even as he pieces his single memory of Nathaniel humiliating Riko and all the times Neil antagonized him, consequences be damned.

How could he not see it? How could he not recognize him? Of all the exy players, of all the files, of all the most improbable people, he just had to find the one who should’ve never been found? If he wasn’t drowning in panic, Kevin would laugh.

What the fuck is Neil - no, Nathaniel, thinking? Has he fucking lost his mind? Why did he even accept a place in the Foxes, under the spotlight--- oh God, _God_ , that time at Kathy’s, Kevin insisted, Kevin _forced him to_ , and Nathaniel was so against it and he was _right_ , what if his father finds him now, what if he already knows, what if---

“Shut up,” Nathaniel says, if to him or Jean, Kevin doesn’t know. “Don’t say anything else.”

They’re shepherded away from the Ravens, and Kevin would be relieved if his mind wasn’t ringing with the notion of _Neil being Nathaniel._ When they sit down he uselessly takes Nathaniel’s chin, studies his face better, but the truth is he truly doesn’t remember what he looked like. He had seen him only that day, and for an hour, maybe two, and for years, in Kevin’s mind, that horrifying day was the moment he truly understood who the Moriyamas are.

But the Butcher. You don’t forget a man like that.

Kevin has seen him, after that day, still a trusted man of the Moriyamas. Kevin has heard the murmurs, too. Of his disgrace - the wife running, taking the son with her. Of his dishonor, both because his wife took Moriyama money from him, and because the son who slipped away had been paied for already - one fourth of his value, if he ever was really drafted, in advance.

Kevin has been lucky enough to avoid the Butcher, staying well out of his business, but he has seen him nonetheless, and now he searches his features in Nathaniel’s. He’s back at that night for a moment, when Nicky told Nathaniel they all knew he wore contacts anyway. Under the artificial - boring, forgettable, _of course_ forgettable - brown, his eyes are blue.

Icy blue.

Kevin wants to know so many things - where is Nathaniel’s mother, why did he run, what the fuck he thinks he’s---

“No, Kevin. Not here. You and I will talk tomorrow,” he says, and he’s so controlled, regardless of how shaky his hands are half-hidden under the table, of how sick he looks. Kevin almost has enough clarity left to envy him. There is no control in how his thoughts churn. When he leaves, followed by Abby, his only clarity lies in how quickly he downs drink after drink. Everything else is chaos.

Riko, who knows about it all. Riko, who hates Nathaniel. Riko, who will stop at nothing to crush them.

Kevin downs another glass against the phantom noise of bones crushing, of blinding pain.

Lord Moriyama, who does not forget.

The Butcher, who’s been searching for his lost son. The Butcher, loudly declaring he was going to have his revenge on his wife by chopping their son to pieces in front of her.

The Butcher that day, cold and unforgiving, selling his son away, knowing, maybe hoping that failure would mean death.

Kevin remembers a boy with fierce eyes and a smile on his face as he plays, and feels laughter chocking him.

Of course Neil plays like he has everything to lose. How right Kevin had been, and _God he needs another drink._

Neil is killing himself to play exy.   


	2. Allison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how it goes by now. Shotout to crazy_like_a and her fic "Lessons in cartography": the idea of Allison calling Neil "little menace" comes from them (specifically from chapter 34).  
> No trigger warnings apply here other than general mention of Riko's abuse of Neil in Evermore, and grieving, I guess.

I.

 

The first time Allison sees Neil, she thinks, _Easy prey._ He’s sitting on a lone chair, of course - spooked and isolated from the other Foxes. No doubt the monsters wrung him out like a useless rag. The newbie has being thrown into the pool of sharks, and now has to either sink, and very fast at that, or swim.

Allison studies him for a second. His gaze is neither appreciative - as she expects - nor lewd - as she’d welcome as the perfect invitation to break his pretty face. His expression is blank, in that purposeful way Allison recognizes from countless corporate drones and gregarious parasites she had to deal with in the past. This attitude will lead him nowhere with the Foxes.

“I’m going to sit with you,” she says, gauging both his and Seth’s reactions. Seth is, predictably, seething in 0.2 seconds flat. Neil doesn’t react at all.

 _Interesting_ . Allison sits down on the arm of his chair and winds an arm around his shoulders. _Let’s see how much of a gentleman you are, Icicle_ , she thinks, as she crosses her legs. The hem of her dress rides up, dangerously so, and Neil’s eyes remain steadily locked to her’s.

“I can move if you want to sit here,” he says, seemingly unperturbed by the stretch of skin right within arm’s reach.

“No, this is fine,” she says with a smug smile. She can see Seth losing his nonexistent cool already. Seth has bitched and moaned about the idea itself of the Foxes - specifically, Kevin - acquiring a new striker all summer. It doesn’t matter who Neil is or whether he’s a good or a bad player; Seth would hate him anyway. That’s just who Seth is.

As Wymack goes on with his usual start-of-the-year talk, Neil doesn’t move an inch. Allison is close enough that one bad move would squish her breast against him, but Neil doesn’t seem bothered. In facts, he’s not even tense; she can feel it in the line of his shoulders. The Icicle is either very good or very gay (or maybe very good and gay, since she’s sure Nicky would jump out of his seat like his ass was on fire in the same situation).

Allison is mildly impressed. If Neil doesn’t crash and burn in under a month, she already knows what her next bet will be.

  


II.

 

Allison doesn’t see anything. She looks at the tiles of the Foxes’ lounge, but she doesn’t see anything. She hears Nicky telling her something, offering sympathies and comfort, but she doesn’t tune in.

The last time she had been in this same lounge, Seth had been alive.

Why is everything the same? The tiles, the walls, the calendar with the championship’s schedule. Why isn’t everything different?

(But there is something different. There’s supposed to be a hole in between the chairs and the couches, but there isn’t. Allison is furious and relieved the hole isn’t there.)

Her grief is like the distant roar of a grey, cold sea. Allison feels the cold grow from her bones, the fire of her fury burning at her frayed edges, and then receding, and then swelling again, like the waves.

Her shore is made of Andrew’s words, uttered by manic lips; words that just like sand feel unsteady beneath her, slipping through her toes, and freezing. Does she believe him? Does she really believe him? What does a drugged-up psychopath know?

She wants to believe him. She wants to believe in Seth, who was getting there, who was getting better, who raged at her the Foxes Palmetto exy the world, and then ran back to kiss and embrace her whenever she walked out on him. It was their dance. Turning away, the thrill of being chased, being spun around, Allison smug Seth desperate, and then loving each other all over again.

Allison never likes things that are just easy.

It would be so easy, she thinks, as she lifts her eyes to Neil.

Andrew’s words ring in her ears, the echoing rumble of distant thunder.

_Seth knew better than to mix his drugs of choice with alcohol, no? I know that, you know that. How convenient, that he died now, after Neil got Riko so very upset. Neil should die, but he can’t be a what-if for Riko, he has to be destroyed first and only then he will die. But Seth? Seth was the perfect tragic victim of his own self-destructive tendencies. How perfect... don’t you think?_

Neil returns her stare, unblinking and unflinching, looking like he expects her to start screaming or throwing punches any moment. Neil always looks spooked when dealing with the abrasive Foxes, but this - this has a different quality. There’s something practiced in the way Neil braces for violent judgment.

It would be easy, to hate what’s right in front of her, within reach, to shred and rip and destroy.

Allison stares at Neil, and feels nothing. A distant, tormented thought twists in her mind; is this how Seth felt, what he tried to wash away in booze and bury under pills?

Allison stares at Neil, and he doesn’t drop his gaze, and it feels unending. She has razed everything in her path and left the earth scorched and burned bridges to be here, now, her own person, standing on her own two feet, free and unafraid, and she has lost. Seth knew, he always knew.

Life’s a bitch, and it takes from you whenever it gives you something, and then you die.

Allison stares at Neil, and she knows it’s not his fault, and she also knows it will take a lot of time before she wants to look at him again. She takes his silent wait, and the reckless, brave way he had stood up for Kevin against Riko on national television, and locks them away for much, much later. She’s had enough of Neil Josten for now.

  


III.

 

First impressions, as they say, can be deceitful. Allison had dismissed the stand-offish, skittish newcomer as a pushover, barely worth the entertainment of one or two bets. There were so few interesting things to say about Neil Josten that the only thing she and Nicky had found to bet on was whether or not he was straight. The percentage of lies-to-truth in everything he said was so astronomically high - Allison estimated it at around 90% - it was pathetic. Nothing screams “broken childhood” and “parental abuse” like a kid who lies about having the money to buy new clothes (Allison doesn’t believe he does for a second).

She sort of regrets having missed that first time Neil showed his true colors - on national television, and defending Kevin “You Suck At Everything, Neil” Day, of all things. At the time, when Matt and Dan told her, she didn’t even believe them. Then she saw the show - of course those two lovable fools had recorded it - and she still remembers the shocking transformation from “I’m small and frightened, come too close and I’ll bite” to “I’m 5’3” of spite and righteous fury and I’ll mop the floor with your fucking face, Riko”.

That was the first time she saw _something_ in Neil - the iron spine hiding beneath the timid act.

Even Seth had been impressed. And he loved seeing someone drag Riko for once.

Then Seth died.

And Neil lived.

Allison emerged from the cold sea of her grief slowly, but surely. She remembers Dan’s and Renee’s arms around her, their warm embrace.

She remembers Andrew’s words, callous and cutting, jagged shards of glass in her mind.

Yet those, too, dragged her out. Allison is a fighter. Knowing who is responsible, knowing there is someone out there alive and breathing and guilty - is unacceptable, and she can’t stand to just lie there when she could smash Riko’s face on the court. She wonders, sometimes, just how much Andrew’s words were deliberate manipulation, or just rocks hurled at her in manic enjoyment of her pain. She hopes the latter. The idea of Andrew having figured her out makes her feel like she’s been blind and stupid.

She remembers Neil avoiding her, seemingly afraid of even breathing in her general direction; she remembers avoiding him (and that memorable time he jumped when she asked him to pass the ketchup. Renee had bet that, when Allison talked to him again for the first time, he’d look happy. Allison had gagged and bet on him being spooked to death. In retrospect, Renee was lovingly manipulating her into talking to Neil again, because that’s what Renee does.)

The first time Allison really looks at Neil after months, her heart lurches, then burns with outrage. She has been told about Christmas, and Evermore, but nothing could prepare her for this. Neil’s pretty face is almost unrecognizable under layers and layers of bruises, gauze, and tape. Allison digs her nails into her palms and imagines it’s Riko’s neck they’re piercing.

That _pathetic_ , _worthless bully._

Next comes the startling realization Neil’s hair isn’t black anymore, which is just… odd.  

She watches silently as Neil fucks around with his phone, trying, like always, and failing, like always, to convince them he’s fine. There’s only so much of his usual bullshit Dan can take before she snaps.

“That motherfuck---”

Renee, mindful of Wymack’s warning, clamps a hand on Dan’s shoulder. “We were just debating what to order for lunch. Abby said she’ll call it in and pick it up for us so that we don’t have to wait on delivery. Any suggestions?”

Neil, predictably, goes right along with it. “I’m fine with anything,” he says.

Allison stomps down the tender violence in her heart and rakes him with a skeptical look. “Can you even chew?”

“Yes,” he answers. Then, like the little slippery weasel he is, he deflects with, “Where is Andrew?”

Still trying to win the Neil’s Best Friend Award, Matt humors him. Allison makes a mental note to tell him later that no, Andrew isn’t competition in _that_ department, and he can stop with the jealousy any moment now. When he’s done, she tells Neil, “I’m still talking to you,” but what she doesn’t add is, _you troublesome, selfless child who tries too hard and lies way too much for me to be so invested in your well-being._

Neil, because he’s a little shit, deflects again. “Have you seen Seth’s banner yet?”

The words take a few seconds to sink in, but when they do she’s out of her seat and on the court, looking up to _his_ banner. Nobody follows her, and that’s good. She needs space. She needs air. Her throat burns as her gaze remains, unwavering, on everything that’s left of Seth other than a few precious photos and an urn full of ashes buried in the ground. She doesn’t blink, lets her eyes dry, lest tears fall.

What she’d rather focus on is how today she seems hell-bent on being manipulated.

What she’d rather think about is the Foxes destroying Riko and his precious position.

When Nicky comes to fetch her, she walks back wanting nothing more than talking about their upcoming matches. Wymack and the team discuss them for a few minutes, until the matter of Neil’s condition comes up. He sounds resentful when relaying Abby’s decision to bench him for a week, and Allison feels on a spiritual level that Dan wants to cuff him - very, very lightly - just as much as she does. He looks like he got into ten fights and lost eleven, but sure, _he can play exy_.

“I’m fine to play,” he says, and Kevin cuffs him on the back of the head. Allison wants to high-five him for the first time since he came to the Foxes as the sourest, most insufferable prick of an assistant coach to ever exist. Neil _still_ argues, until Andrew pinches one of Neil’s wrists, making him flinch hard and retire to a corner of the couch they share. As the discussion moves to less interesting topics, she muses on the strange alignment of impossibilities Neil made possible with his stubbornness and one-track mind: Dan being protective of him as always, Allison falling in perfect sync with her, Kevin channeling their feeling in that cuff, and Andrew sealing the deal and shutting Neil up (in his usual borderline abusive way, but still. Neil deserves it a little for making her this sappy).

Then Wymack talks press and publicity, and inevitably it’s time to talk about the big elephant in the room.

“I will be a lot less fun if you make us look like fools,” Wymack says. “But I’m not as worried about you as I am about our resident punching bag and his smart mouth. Anyone have ideas on how to make Neil look less like a battered wife?”

“It’s under control,” Allison says before turning to Neil and adding, “You’ll come to our room after the meeting.”

“I was going to buy my textbooks today,” Neil says, like he ever had a choice in the matter.

“I wasn’t asking. You can go when I’m done with you, unless you want to go out looking like that,” she tells him, eyeing his bruises. They’re so extensive, it’s almost impossible to see his real skin color underneath. Neil is just lucky Allison is good with her make up.

“We promise not to ask about Christmas,” Renee says, and Allison almost yells _Like Hell we’re not!_ , until she notices how Neil relaxes at that. He glances at Allison with clear distrust in his eyes, before nodding at Renee and saying, “Okay.”

Allison should really teach him some respect for the great healing power of good gossip. She’s not as inconsiderate as to ask about what exactly Riko did to him, for fuck’s sake - that doesn’t mean they should pass on the chance to know every sordid detail of the Ravens’ lives in their cage of crazy.

These people don’t deserve her, that’s what.

 

Allison ends up buying 500 dollars’ worth of foundations and concealers and dumping them all between her and Neil on the couch. The highlight of her day is when she gets to tell him, “Look straight ahead and let me work. Don’t speak until I ask you a question,” and Neil obediently complies. As she searches for the perfect combination, it strikes her how odd it is to see Neil - stubborn, lying, always-waiting-for-the-next-chance-to-slip-out-of-your-grasp Neil - obey her this easily. She’s used to Matt telling him he can borrow his truck whenever, Neil answering “Sure Matt, thanks,” and never even glance at the keys. Or to Wymack telling him to keep his phone on, Neil responding with “Yes, Coach,” and promptly turning said phone off. Maybe the secret is to boss him around, not ask? She dismisses the thought as she starts to apply the makeup on his face. Allison has a knack Neil is way too used to be forced into things against his will for her comfort. The outrage that has been simmering at the bottom of her quickens her blood and burns her veins. She used to hate Riko for what happened to Seth, but she never fully knew whether to believe Andrew or not. But this? The bruises, the way Neil sat down with infinite care on the couch, the careful way he walks around - so in contrast with the restless energy that usually animates his steps - the effort he takes to school his features every time he moves?

The bandages covering his wrists are the worst to look at.

No, the point cannot be to boss him around.

The point, if there is one, is more likely to be found in the disarming look Neil gives them when they do something nice and mindful for him.

Allison carefully dabs foundation on his eyelids, and Neil closes his eyes. Another mystery to muse on. This close up, she can see the hair is dyed, and she has to wonder what the fuck is up with that. Is this his natural color, then? In a rare bout of usefulness, Nicky had found out about Neil using hair dye weeks before (by the fortuitous retrieval of a receipt, no less, since Neil makes even the _boxes_ disappear, and Matt never saw him using it, nor smelled any residue. Nicky’s revelation put a whole new spin on Neil volunteering to clean the bathroom every week). With auburn hair and icy blue eyes, the effect is striking. Neil’s skin is tan enough to make the eyes really pop, and for the first time Allison wonders if he isn’t of Eastern European descent. She starts to wonder - but at this point every Fox is wondering - what exactly is Neil hiding.

Allison could use her fingers to apply the second layer of color, but she decides against it. She dabs a generous amount on the back of her left hand, and then uses a smaller brush to apply it on Neil’s skin. The bristles are soft and light, and Allison does her best to be gentle.

Riko is going to pay for this. There is no wondering to be done here, no doubt about what he did. What he’d do again if he could snatch Neil away from them again, what he’d do to Kevin if he managed to force him back to Evermore.

Neil relaxes slightly under her touch, and Allison feels a surge of that same fierce protectiveness of before, a well she thought was dry.

The Foxes are outnumbered, disrespected, a fractured mess.

Life’s a bitch, and it takes from you whenever it gives you something, and then you die.

But in the meantime. Oh, in the meantime.

Allison is sinking her perfectly manicured claws in what little she has, because it’s _hers_ , and she is going to sink her teeth in anyone who dares to take them away from her - this bunch of fuckers and rascals and nutcases - and tear them to shreds with great, bloody satisfaction.

 

  


 

> _“I’m sorry.”_
> 
> _“Shut up. No you’re not. You’re not. Have you forgotten who has to paint you back together every morning? If you’d let them steamroll you yesterday after all of this, I would hate you.”_

  


 

BONUS.

 

When Allison sees what Neil is wearing, she lets out a frustrated shriek in Andrew’s direction.

“I know you have more fashion sense than this Andrew! How can you let him get out like this?!”

Andrew barely moves enough to shrug one shoulder. Neil looks affronted.

“He does have better outfits. Ones I bought, obviously, but he decides not to wear them.”

Neil glares at him. “I am right here.”

“Yes, and you’re an absolute eyesore.”

Neil reluctantly checks his own clothing. He’s wearing a simple grey tee and black sweatpants. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

Allison has to stop herself from hitting him with her purse. “This,” she says, gesturing wildly to Neil’s person, “is absolutely unacceptable.”

Neil looks lost and Allison is _not_ finding it adorable, because she has to focus. “It’s just normal clothes. They’re even new, Allison.”

“That’s not the point. They’re unflattering.”

“They’re comfortable,” Neil says, and Allison knows that tone, that frown, spelling: Neil Is Getting Stubborn, And Now Getting Him To Budge Is Going To Take A Monumental Effort. She turns to Andrew, who’s being his usual useless self.

“What’s his problem with dressing nicely? He could pull off anything. Don’t you compliment him sometimes?”

Andrew raises an eyebrow at her.

“Oh don’t give me that look. I’ve seen you checking him out on the rare occasions somebody wrestles him into something decent.”

“Nobody forces him to wear anything.”

This time it’s Neil turn to raise an eyebrow at Andrew. “Oh really now? So next time I’m given the usual bag with clubbing clothes, I can just say no?”

Andrew stares at him. Neil stares back, a little smile playing at the corner of his lips. Allison, like the other Foxes, is by now accustomed to these silent staring contests, so she just taps her atomic red pumps-clad foot as she waits.

She can’t understand how Neil stands that apathetic look, that heavy silence; Andrew often seems to her way too similar to a black hole for comfort. He makes her uneasy. But ever since Neil happened, she thinks she’s starting to understand. Andrew plays a role, and whoever diagnosed him as a sociopath was a fucking idiot who got played by a teenager - an admittedly terrifying teenager, Allison might concede, who grew up to be an even more terrifying young man. Who apparently has the hots for the only rich mobster’s son who can’t be bothered to care about clothes, or about impressing his not-boyfriend - because yes, they’re still playing this ridiculous game in which they live in the same room, share the same clothes, smoke the same cigarettes, have matching fucking armbands but they don’t even hold hands in public. (She is still waiting for Kevin to walk in on them and collect her money.)

Allison, used to burn every obstacle in her path without thinking twice about it, would very much like to smack them both.

Finally, Andrew turns to her. “It’s useless to buy him everyday clothes. He won’t wear them.”

Allison rolls her eyes. “I know that, fucker, that’s why I need you to convince him you like him dressed as something else other than a hobo.”

“I’m right here,” Neil complains again. No one listens.

“He’s an eyesore. You said it yourself,” she says, and grabs Neil. She turns him around so that he’s facing Andrew. “He doesn’t even try and yet he turns heads. We both know that.”

(“That is not true,” Neil says. No one listens.)

“I’m sure I don’t have to point out to you that _this_ ,” and she cards her fingers through Neil’s auburn hair, then down the side of his face, “is a very nice success on genetics’ part.”

Neil grabs her hand, that is hovering over his cheek, and holds it. “My face is a mess, Allison,” he says matter-of-factly, like he’s talking about the sky being blue or Kevin being an insufferable prick. He adds, “Besides, I don’t think there’s anything nice in my genetics.”

Andrew plays his role with the rehearsed perfection of the consummate performer, but lately - since Neil happened - some things spill out, like a thin trail of sand through a crack. This time, it’s a darkening in his expression at Neil’s words. He meets Allison’s eyes, and she knows that for once they see eye to eye.

She moves her hand to his cheek, over the burn scars. “Your face belongs in a Dolce & Gabbana ad.”

“Allison…”

“Who studies fashion again?”

Neil sighs. “You.”

“What do you study?”

“Math.”

“That’s right, so shut the fuck up.”

She turns him around again, and Neil doesn’t resist (the way he just rolls with anything the Foxes suggest is endlessly entertaining, and she’s perfectly okay with taking advantage of the fact - all for the stubborn little menace’s benefit, of course). She cups his face, enjoying that deer-in-headlights he always gets when treated with kindness. Then she pinches his cheeks, hard, because what the hell, she can’t just _be tender like this what about her reputation?_

“Stop being difficult. We’ve been trying to improve your wardrobe for months. You have no reason to hide anymore, right? Because that’s what the faded, grey clothes were about.”

Neil has the decency to look sheepish. “It’s… not easy to let go of the habit.”

She huffs in exasperated fondness. “How do you deal with being under the spotlight as an athlete again?” She turns to Andrew and asks, “What does he do when people around campus recognize him?”

Andrew’s expression doesn’t change, but Allison is almost sure she hears a note of amusement in his voice when he says, “He stares them down until they go away.”

“That’s not true!” Neil sputters.

Andrew stares at him.

“It happened once,” Neil amends, “and I was just embarrassed, okay?”

“Did he do the jerk-with-deadpan-answers routine?” she asks Andrew.

“Obviously.”

“Are you done ganging up on me?” Neils asks.

Allison and Andrew exchange a glance. She smiles at him smugly and says, “We’re just getting started.”

It’s the first time she’s smiled at Andrew in more than two years she knows the pet psychopath.

 

 _Since Neil happened_. The words are bouncing in Allison’s mind still as she combs through a rack of shirts with the quick disdain of the extremely picky expert. Andrew is on the other side of the aisle, where everything is black.

As she scoffs at the dull and unoriginal cut of a shirt with the embarrassing tag “new collection fresh out of the Milan catwalks!”, she contemplates how strange it is that she is shopping with _Andrew_ , and stranger still, that she doesn’t feel it strange at all. It’s like a rare cosmic alignment of planets. Neil happened; they both ended up caring for him; Neil is unable to dress decently; they are going to teach him how to dress appropriately for what he can pull off - and Allison means it when she says he could pull off anything.

He’s following them, the little menace, placidly enough. She hears the message loud and clear in his pliancy: I’m Going To Play Along, But The Moment You Turn Your Head I’m Doing What I Want.

Classic Neil. What a little fucker.

That’s why she needs Andrew to do his part of the job. She stares at him, reminiscing a time - not a long time ago - in which she spited and hated him. She still does. The memory of his arm choking her with merciless cruelty, of asphalt biting her hands as she struggled, is still fresh in her mind. But fresher is the memory of Neil becoming thin smoke in the night air, and vanishing, and Andrew looking, and looking, and looking, and silently raging in powerlessness. Maybe it wasn’t exactly the same thing, what she had felt, but she understood him well. And then there was something he could do, a neck he could wring, and violence exploded.

She never expected to find it in herself to kind of liking him a little.

 _Since Neil happened_. The thought floats in the back of her mind, idly.

“What,” Andrew asks, back to her, words clipped and tone dead with apathy.

She takes out a hanger from the rack and holds it up. “What do you think?”

He turns, stands there as perfectly still as the reptile he is, and then turns back to his rack.

It takes _everything_ in her not to throw the hanger at him.

“He means he likes it,” Neil pipes in. Allison doubts it. It must show on her face, because Neil laughs at her and tells her, “Trust me.”

“Am I going to need an Andrew-to-Human translator or are you going to fucking talk to me, fucker?” she yells at Andrew.

“You have your translator right there,” Andrew says, and Allison could swear he sounds amused.

“I’m not sure I like where this conversation is going,” Neil says. Allison holds up a few shirts against him, discarding them all and then throwing them on top of the rack for whatever unlucky asshole works here to sort later. Neil eyes the pile.

“What?” Allison asks.

He smirks at her. “You two are more alike than I thought.”

Her outraged “What the fuck, Neil?!” is underlined by Andrew turning and snarling at his not-boyfriend, “Shut the fuck up, Neil.”

Neil’s smirk widens. Then he points to the piles of clothes Andrew took off the hangers and scattered on the floor, apparently for no better reason than for the hell of it.

Allison watches in utter fascination as Andrew sparks alive at Neil’s playful taunt. She doesn’t understand, exactly, how Neil knows that the glint in Andrew’s eyes means he has to step closer - he just does. Where the fuck did he pick that up?

Andrew puts a hand on Neil’s neck, guides him to a corner of the shop, and says, “Stand there and don’t talk.”

Neil, because it’s well known he can’t help being a little shit, asks, “Is that your version of _stand there and be pretty_?”

Andrew throws a pair of designer jeans at him, which makes Neil laugh.

Allison focuses on what _matters_ , else she gags, and eyes the jeans critically. She nods at Andrew and says, “Not bad. I’m impressed.”

Just as Andrew locks eyes with her in mild - very, very mild, because it’s _Andrew_ \- approval, Neil comments, “If you wanted to buy me faded and ripped jeans, we could’ve just cut a few holes in my old ones,” as he turns the tag, “for way less than 300 dollars.”

Allison and Andrew snap in unison, “ _Shut the fuck up, Neil_.”

Neil laughs.


	3. Aaron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: use of mysoginist and homophobic slurs, canonical mention of rape.

I.

When Aaron sees Neil for the first time, he and Andrew are playing the game. Aaron doesn’t know why, exactly, Andrew wants to mess with Neil as soon as he lands - literally - but after all, when ever does Andrew give a shit about telling Aaron anything? So when Andrew comes back from the airport and says, “He thought I was you,” Aaron takes the lie and makes it his own. Nothing new there.

In a few minutes they’ll be up in Wymack’s apartment. Kevin will want booze from the secret stash, and someone willl steal it and act none the wiser if Coach says anything about it. (Mostly, it’ll be Kevin and Andrew to drink the high-quality liquor.) Nothing new there.

Someone will raid the bathroom’s cabinet for painkillers, and pocket some, and if Coach notices, no one will be the wiser. (Those are the scraps for the lesser. Aaron has no illusion to where he falls in the hierarchy).

Nothing new there, either.

Aaron takes one look at Neil; dark hair, dark eyes and faded grey clothes paint a picture of blandness. Even if he had an interest in the new fox, he’d be put off. How lucky then, that he never cared in the first place. He watches his twin carefully when he steps out of the car, gauging how he angles his body relative to Neil, the ease or tension in his steps. He looks relaxed and as deadly as always when he’s sober, so Aaron’s mind is made up.

Dismissed.

Of course Nicky, being the social whore he is, doesn’t waste any time getting all friendly with the scaredy newcomer. Maybe he even finds him attractive.

“This is where Coach lives,” Nicky says unnecessarily. “He makes all the money, so he gets to live in a place like this while we poor people couch surf.”

“You have a nice car for someone who thinks he’s poor,” Neil says.

 _We don’t have a car_ , Aaron thinks. _Andrew does. And of course he lets only his least favourite pet drive it._

“That’s why we’re poor,” Nicky says dryly.

In true Andrew’s fashion, the stab comes as easy as breathing. “Aaron’s mother bought it for us with her life insurance money. It’s no surprise she had to die to be worth anything.”

Aaron doesn’t hear Nicky’s pathetic attempt at making Andrew tone it down. Aaron forces himself to unclench his teeth before they shatter. He walks the distance to Wymack’s apartment in a haze of red mist and fury that he can only swallow down, down, down. There is nowhere to go but down. Down under Andrew’s thumb, down the road Andrew carved for them all, down with a dose of dust and mindless Columbia nights only as much and as long as Andrew concedes.

Aaron pays only a half-mind to whatever else is said, too busy stewing in his resentment and trying too hard to hide it. Andrew ignores him, like always, so he can’t tell whether he knows Aaron very much would like to bash his face in (he knows as well he’d sign his own death sentence. Living glued to Andrew’s side makes one very, very attuned to his terrifying presence). He can never tell. Does Andrew get a kick out of riling him up and seeing him swallow it down? Or does he do it because it’s just in his nature to kick people down and then stomp on them until they’re a bleeding mess?

When Neil sees through the twins’ ruse, Aaron feels slightly vindicated, if only because at least _something_ didn’t go Andrew’s way.

“You could have corrected me,” Neil says.

“Could have, didn’t,” Andrew says. “Figure it out for yourself.”

“I did,” Neil says, and then the conversation takes a turn Aaron doesn’t understand.

“Better luck next time,” Neil finshes, to which Andrew responds with dismissive delight.

“Oh. Oh, you might actually turn out to be interesting. For a little while, at least. I don’t think the amusement will last. It never does.”

Aaron feels a spark of irritation at that. The last thing they all need is for Andrew to find someone “interesting” again. Of course, there is nothing to be done about it. Aaron will weather the storm and wait for it to pass, like always. Maybe he’ll even get a laugh or two out of it at Neil’s expense.

 

II.

 

The locker room of the Foxhole Court, once the entire team is back after the summer, is still too empty. Aaron feels the difference acutely. It’s nothing like the boisterous, crowded place he had gotten used to in high school. The atmosphere is completely different, at once more intense and subdued. Back when he had first joined the team, Aaron had realized quickly that the most important part of the team’s life didn’t happen during drills nor on game nights; it happened there, in the locker room. Hierarchies, popularity, who was a star and who was a punching bag; everything was decided there. His teammates gauged themselves and each other through a code made of scathing remarks and continuous dares.

_We raped them tonight!_

_Did you see her shirt? What a slut!_

_What, you don’t like titties, faggot?_

All things considered, there was very little exy involved. Kevin would have hated that (Kevin was, after all, the least tolerant of sexist remarks exy athlete Aaron had ever dealt with. The adjustment phase had been brutal, but in hindsight, Aaron should have expected it; Kevin’s mother invented exy). Aaron had thought joining the team would keep him away from his mum; finally having a social life was a welcomed bonus. The initial idea, however, was bornbecause he had heard Andrew was really, really good at it. At the time, the reasoning had made sense. He wanted to believe in the myth of identical twins sharing _something_ , anything at all. They didn’t share any peculiar sense for each other’s existence, clearly; they didn’t even share the desire to know each other, since that was just as clearly only a desire Aaron harbored; they could share a talent, at least.

So Aaron conformed. It wasn’t that hard anyway. The fact that he was a more than decent backliner helped, but really, the _social_ part overrode the _exy_ part pretty fast. His mother was a nightmare steadily getting worse and worse, never failing to show in words and deeds her comittment to hating him.

Another good part about exy was he had an easy excuse for the bruises. Aaron played as aggressively as possible, uncaring of red cards and injuries. His teammates loved it. His coach loved it. So what if he was venting his pent-up self-hatred on some unlucky asshole?

So what if the combined beatings drove him to down more pills more often?

It was great. He felt part of the group. And when it came to bonding experiences, he fell in line. He laughed with them, he yelled taunts from the cafeteria’s tables, he had his friends’ backs no matter what - when they had their fun spooking a freshman, when they gauged a newcomer with some rough words and a shove or two, when they offered drink after drink after drink to a girl at a party. It was all part of the experience. It was all part of being social.

Aaron downed more pills more often.

Then Andrew appeared. He took one look at Aaron’s life, and sneered.

Aaron tells himself it was for the best that Andrew had no interest in capitalizing on Aaron’s misplaced desire for a caring brother. He was so ready to simply fall into his hands, Andrew could have made him do anything. Instead, he looked down on him with the disgust of a god. And like a god, he struck down like lightning, and everything fell apart.

When his mom died, Aaron expected the team to be sympathetic. He hadn’t realized just how deep Tilda’s bad reputation had buried her. He had heard the words before. He had used them on the victims of the clique.

_Junkie._

_Whore._

_Good riddance._  

He foolishly held to a sliver of hope, and dared to expect Andrew’s sympathy. Andrew looked at him like his mom had; like Aaron’s very existence disgusted him. Then he locked Aaron up in what was now _their_ house’s bathroom and let him puke his soul through withdrawal.

Aaron hadn’t known it was possible to hate and loathe a person with such intensity, and he wanted Andrew to _know_. But Andrew excelled at not caring, and Aaron’s disjointed efforts in both hating him and reaching out bounced right off. Worse, it was like they were sucked into the devouring, cold vacuum of space.

Then Nicky had flown from Germany to become their guardian. Selfless, generous, caring Nicholas, leaving behind his loving boyfriend to give them a chance at a family; them, a couple of fucked-up cousins he barely knew. He tried so _genuinely_ . He was so _genuinely_ gay. Any chance Aaron had had to get back into his team’s good graces was shot.

Aaron hated how hard he tried, again and again, to be good for them, to win them over. He hated more that Nicky was the only human being left in his life (because no, Andrew didn’t count) and that was the only reason why Aaron grew attached to him - he didn’t have anyone else, that was it. Aaron had tried too, why hadn’t it worked on Andrew?

Like hell he was giving Nicky what he wanted so easily. Who asked him anything, anyway? Why hadn’t he stayed in fucking Germany with his fucking fag of a boyfriend?

_I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care._

Fangs out and teeth bared.

Daring Nicky to give up.

Ignoring Andrew with everything he had.

_I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care._

The Foxhole Court’s locker room is so big and empty, it’s easy to forget it’s not only them and their little family drama in it. Now Aaron has to deal not only with Kevin, but with Neil too. No matter. Aaron can ignore them both. Let Andrew have his fun with them. They’ll both understand soon enough that they have everything to lose from his deals.

As it is, though, it would be infinitely easier to ignore them if Nicky didn’t fret so much about them. Especially the newcomer. What does he care about Neil, anyway? He’s a scared sucker who lets Kevin push him around and Seth chew him out. If Nicky didn’t run a constant and disgusting commentary on how attractive Neil is, Aaron would tell him to get it over with and adopt him. What he does, instead, is listen to Nicky worrying about him in German.  

“You think he’s ever going to forgive us?” Nicky asks.

“Does it matter? He’s not our problem,” Aaron says, hoping his bored tone would give Nicky a clue. Of course it doesn’t.

“What do you mean, he’s not our problem?” Nicky asks, dismayed. “Are we really doing this all over again? You want to fight these guys all the way to graduation?”

Aaron is already 200 percent done with this conversation, and yet he knows that Nicky will not let go. “I want to be left alone.”

“This is a team sport!” Nicky exclaims. “You can’t live like this, Aaron. I can’t live like this. It’s exhausting and depressing.”

 _What were you doing when I had teammates I actually wanted to keep?_ Aaron could ask, if he wanted to care. Instead he says, “Okay.”

“‘Okay’? Just ‘okay’? This isn’t okay. Jesus. Sometimes you’re so much like Andrew is horrifying.”

“Fuck you,” Aaron says, livid.

Neil stays silent through the entire exchange. He doesn’t even have the minimum courage required to look at them as they argue in German, progressively louder, like Matt does. To think Nicky is worried about what _Neil_ thinks of them.

_I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care._

The mantra of the loser. The fox looking at the grapes and saying they’re sour. Aaron repeats the words in his head and wishes they came true. I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t want to care. It’s funny how Nicky tells him he’s so much like Andrew, someone who is the embodiment of the sentence “I don’t care”. It’s so funny he could punch Nicky’s stupid face.

Aaron wishes he didn’t care with the perfect intensity of his brother. Care doesn’t factor in even in Andrew’s deals. Demons don’t care for the deals they make; they just wait for their victim’s misstep, their eventual downfall.

Aaron doesn’t know what, exactly, is the deal Neil struck with Andrew, but he must have one to be included in the family after Columbia. So now Aaron is stuck with him too, now. Big deal.

I don’t care, I don’t care, it’s best if I don’t care because what I want, I cannot have.

Until the one who cares is Andrew, and Aaron’s world tilts on its axis.

 

III.

 

There is no one more adept than him in the science of studying Andrew Minyard; Aaron is sure of it. He _knows_ when Andrew and Neil stop being belligerent and start to find common ground. Even before every fox can’t help but see how Andrew - wild, unpredictable, gleefully uncooperative Andrew - just listens to what Neil “ _asks_ ”, Aaron listens to the change. It’s in the words they speak. It’s like what they tell each other is just the tail-end of a longer, on-going conversation; a conversation only they know about.

Aaron _hates it_.

Most of all, he hates Neil.

What is it with his familiarity, with the easy way he stands up to Andrew? And why is Andrew letting him? Why the amused quips, why the nights at Columbia, why the constant prodding, why the _attention_? His other teammates see their verbal scrimmages and worry, but Aaron is seething. The best anyone can get out of Andrew is the amusement a cat might have for a mouse, playing with it before killing it. It’s the kind of amusement Kevin puts up with, in the foolish hope of one day getting Andrew to see things his way, to play like he means it. It’s the kind of amusement Andrew gets out of poking and prodding at Aaron’s wounds, at Nicky’s naive good will.

It’s not the amusement Neil gets. Aaron isn’t even sure what Neil is getting, but he’s sure he doesn’t like it.

At first, Neil had been nothing more than a shadow in Aaron’s vision. Then came the first signs his pushover act was just that. An act.

But Aaron’s entire existence is still consumed by Andrew’s devouring, burning presence. Aaron is too worried with the very short leash he’s allowed for Neil to be little more than a blip on his radar.

Until the day comes that Neil gets into sharp focus.

They day the car gets vandalized, and Aaron looks for Katelyn to vent and to talk and to find solace, like he always does.

The day Katelyn tells Aaron _No, no Neil is right, you have to put your foot down, you can’t let Andrew dominate your life like this, and unless you go to therapy with him and solve this, we are not dating._

Neil is right, she says.

Kind, bubbly Katelyn, the only good thing in his shitty life, something so bright, saying she’s his only consolation is downright insulting. She is everything.

Aaron wants to fucking kill Neil.

How could he not see this? He has seen it happening before. Neil circling around them, “ _asking_ ” Andrew, biding his time until Andrew was out of the picture, making the two halves of the team getting along, moving the pieces on the shessboard to grant Wymack’s, Dan’s, and then Nicky’s wishes...

Aaron knows where to find him. Everyone knows Neil lives and breathes exy; if he’s not on the court, he’s at Fox Tower, and that’s exactly where Aaron finds him, coming down from the roof, a quiet bounce in his step like he’s fucking happy.

Aaron slams into him like a freight train and crushes him up against the wall, and then they’re brawling. It’s over way too soon, with the other athletes of the dorm separating them. Aaron’s blood is boiling, but Neil doesn’t seem concerned in the least. He looks, if anything, smug and dismissive. He even has the gall to say, “We’re good.”

“Fuck you! What the fuck did you tell her?” Aaron yells, the only screen between them and their unwanted audience the barrier of German.

Neil shrugs at him, his nonchalance a taunt so similar to what Andrew throws at him every day, that for a moment Aaron feels like he’s sinking into pitch black darkness. He can take Andrew’s cruel dismissal, because he’s used to it, because he has no other choice, because he made a deal. But _like hell_ he’s taking it from this fucker, too.

“You had no right to drag her into this!”

The commotion lures the foxes out of their rooms.

“Do I want to know?” Nicky asks, when Dan fails to intervene.

Aaron shrugs his captor off, who hovers near in fear Aaron will lunge for Neil again; but Aaron is rapidly suffocating. Neil’s very presence is choking him. Katelyn’s closed door is choking him.

“Katelyn’s refusing to see me or talk to me until Andrew and I get counseling.”

Nicky, the fucking traitor, is impressed. “Damn, Neil,” he says, and Aaron can’t believe he’d take _anyone_ ’s side but Aaron’s. What the fuck is wrong with him? Not a few hours before he defended _Andrew attacking Allison_!

“Don’t you dare take his side,” Aaron shoots him.

“Why not?” Nicky asks. “It’s not like you’ve ever let me take yours.”

 _Is it easy to stand up to me, Nicky?_ Aaron wants to scream. Instead he shoves him aside and stomps for their room, where the only thing waiting for him is more people he doesn’t want to see; but at least it will be devoid of Neil’s disgusting presence.   

 

IV.

 

The joint therapy sessions go as well as anyone could expect.

Aaron is livid for being trapped like this, but there is no denying it; he’d do anything to get Katelyn back.

And he must admit, however begrudgingly, that Dr Dobson knows Andrew well enough to make it work. The sessions get slightly better over time. Actually, Andrew isn’t as opposed to them as Aaron expected.

“Was this your idea?” Aaron asks a few sessions down the line. “Was Neil just doing what you wanted?”

“You overestimate how much I want to talk about your mommy issues,” Andrew drawls.

“Then, what? He forces you into this, and you’re okay with it?”

Andrew doesn’t look bothered in the least when he answers, “Neil has a nack for keeping things interesting.”

Aaron’s burning loathing for Neil smotheres until only the cold ashes of resentment remain. He’s never going to underestimate Neil Josten again.

 

Aaron keeps his eyes on him.

The others’ willingness to turn a blind eye to Neil’s lies leaves a sour taste in his mouth, yet his lips are sealed.

Until they’re not.

 

January. A home game. It should be a day like any other; important - there’s the match after all - but it’s not like it’s a final.

Instead their locker room looks like the set of a horror movie. Aaron might hate Neil, but seeing him soaked in a waterfall of blood is chilling all the same. Then they see the bathroom wall.

_Happy 19th Birthday, Jr._

Neil, of course, is adamant: he’s going to play.

He also doesn’t want the police involved. Absolutely not.

A maniac, or worse, more than one maniac left two gallons of blood in his personal locker, left an ominuous message in the bathroom, showed that he knows who Neil is and who his father is and that he’s a jumble of lies who’s not turning twenty like he’s supposed to.

Of course Neil Josten doesn’t want the police involved. What would happen to all his precious lies if it id? They would crash down like a castle made of cards.

The others are _so worried_ for Neil’s mental well-being.

Aaron cares more about how they’re harboring a runaway, who is probably either associated with criminals, or a criminal himself.

Aaron bides his time until the inevitable talk at the end of the match. He watches as Neil weasels his way through it, talking Coach out of calling the police, quelling Dan’s and Matt’s misplaced worry. If anything, they should be worried about their own well-being, not his.

When Matt says, “No one’s perfect. Everyone leaves a trail,” Aaron has had enough.

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Junior?”

Aaron sees Neil grimace, bracing for impact. When he strikes, Aaron tries his best to make it count. “They’ll never find proof that Riko was involved in this, but they might find you, right? That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”

Days and weeks passed in silent, loath-filled observation come spilling out of Aaron’s mouth. “Your looks, your languages, your lies - you’re running from something or someone.”

Neil, as is his true nature, goes for the jugular at once. “You know, I expected low blows and backstabbing from the Ravens. I thought Foxes were better than that. No, don’t you dare take your issues with Andrew out on me. I know you’re mad at me for getting Katelyn involved, but you’re going to have to get over that.”

Aaron can’t fucking believe his hypocrisy. “You dragged her into my business. I’m dragging them into yours. Not as much fun when someone does it to you, is it?”

The argument degenerates into Neil firing off one insult after the other, and really, Aaron shouldn’t be as taken aback as he is. Yet he has trouble finding his footing after Neil - _or whatever his fucking name actually is, the asshole_ \- brings up Aaron’s mom. Then Neil neatly pulls Andrew into the fray, and everything gets derailed into cold-hearted murder and deals Aaron had not understood, because _he is not as twisted as Andrew_.

Yet when Aaron looks into his twin’s eyes, his own outrage is snuffed out like a candle in the wind. He is no match for Andrew’s uncompromising rage. Worse, Aaron is made small and cowering in front of it.

Aaron forgets all about Neil and stares at the ground.

Oh, Neil is good at what he does.

 

V.

 

Then Baltimore happens.

When Neil appears in their hotel, it’s not surprising that everyone sees a beat-up puppy to protect; Neil’s injuries are horrific enough.

But it is very surprising that “everyone” includes _Andrew._

When Neil all but confirms that they’re together, Aaron starts to think.

“ _Asking_ ”.

_Neil has a nack for keeping things interesting._

Neil picking up his racquet, kicking the door down.

(Neil knew.)

(How could Neil have known?)

Neil Josten and his lies have been into sharp focus in Aaron’s vision for a while now, yet Neil still had secrets to spill - secrets much more important than the truth about Nathaniel Wesninski.

Nicky, lacking in both brain-to-mouth filter and survival instincts, is of course willing to die to know more about Andrew and Neil. As soon as he can he asks, _What the fuck, Andrew? Is this why you were so greedy? You had your eyes on him since day one, didn’t you? And look, fuck, I totally understand, but, but this is Neil. I can see why the hate sex would work for you, but he doesn’t know any better!_

He’s lucky Andrew doesn’t cut out his tongue.

It’s the last piece in a puzzle Aaron didn’t even know was laid out in front of him.

He has to re-evaluate Neil again.

He’s quiet in a way that only _looks_ harmless. He’s a manipulative bastard, a fucking snake lying in wait. Observing, evaluating, figuring out every weekness, until he strikes. It should be impossible to think of Andrew as a victim, but after

 

_him_

 

Aaron knows better than to think of Andrew as invincible.

Andrew also cares about Neil. Andrew, who doesn’t care. If Baltimore isn’t enough proof of it, the way Andrew clings to Neil in the aftermath is. Aaron would gag at the sight of Andrew coming back from Neil’s room in Neil’s clothes, if he wasn’t so busy plotting.

But the shock of finding out Andrew is gay is nothing compared to the opportunity served to Aaron on a silver platter.

He waits for Andrew to calm the fuck down first; predictably, it takes days. Then Aaron finally manages to talk to Neil, alone. They are in the cabin’s kitchen; when Aaron demands his attention, Neil meets his stare with icy steel in his eyes. That’s enough to erase any soft-hearted feeling Aaron might have had, looking at Neil’s extensive bandages. Let the others fret. This hard, cold demeanour suits Neil better; it’s more in tune with what he’s done, with who he’s been all along.

“Nicky’s kind of stupid,” Aaron says. “He made the mistake of saying something to Andrew instead of waiting until he could get you alone. Andrew almost cut him open when he didn’t take the hint fast enough. That leaves you with me, since Andrew didn’t see fit to warn me off you.”

“When’s the last time Andrew saw fit to talk to you at all?” Neil asks. Aaron feels both anger and satisfaction flare within; he was right, after all, in his assessment of who Neil Josten really is. His abrasive honesty goes hand in hand with Andrew’s; and really, if he lets himself consider the possibility, the two fuckers deserve each other, barbed wire and bloody hands included.

“Last Wednesday,” he answers. Neil looks surprised only for a moment, before it melts into self-satisfied smugness. Aaron hates it. It’s Neil’s turn to be had.

”So now you’re going to talk to me,” Aaron continues, “And I’m going to give you exactly one chance to tell me the truth. Are you really fucking my brother? Do you take your cues from dead men?”

“What?” Neil looks like he took a brick to the head. It’s so galvanizing, Aaron wants nothing more than plowing on, hitting harder and harder.

“Just wondering how you went from your whole I-don’t-date high horse to Andrew’s bed. Either you were lying to us to hide the fact that you’re a flamer, or you saw Drake rape Andrew and realized he’s easy prey.”

The punch is equal parts surprising and expected. Aaron wanted a violent reaction, something that told him his accusations were wrong. He didn’t expect Neil to be so stupid as to punch him, what with how his hands are injured.

Or so stupidly taken with Andrew to do it.

It’s a good sign, probably.

“Fuck you. Walk away while you still can,” Neil wheezes, cradling his hand.

Aaron almost feels sorry for him. “Nicky guesses it’s nothing more than hate sex. I’m hedging my bets on it being something else. We’ll know soon enough, right?”

“Stay out of it.”

“I won’t. You wanted me to fight for her. Do you think he’ll fight for you?”

“No.”

 _We’ll see about that_ , Aaron thinks. It feels good to see how the tables have turned. It will feel better when he’ll use Neil against Andrew.

Aaron is already thinking of where he’ll bring Katelyn to celebrate. Somewhere as bright and as public as possible.

 

VI.

 

Andrew is _livid_ when Aaron brings it up in their next session.

It’s exactly like a demon would behave when it realizes it’s been had at its own game. For a moment, Aaron fears Andrew will break things off with Neil just to spite him.

He doesn’t.

Aaron had anticipated this.

It still feels monumental.

What is it about Neil Josten that has Andrew so taken with him?

All things considered, Aaron doesn’t care. That punch Neil threw at him is everything he cares to know.

He’s still a snake, but he can go on being Andrew’s snake, if that’s what Andrew’s into.


End file.
